by Ray Clark
“I believe so.”
“A large white van that had been seen around here and Bramfield, one that has a driver’s side brake light out?” pressed Reilly.
“I can’t recall the exact details.”
“Maybe you were having trouble with your memory, Mr Johnson,” said Gardener.
“How so?”
“You failed to let the officers know that you had a white van. It’s come to our attention that your van also has a brake light out. We’ve been around the back, Mr Johnson, and we see that your van has been reversed into the premises. Would you like to do us a favour and drive it out on to the street in front of the shop, so we can check the lights?”
Johnson almost seemed relieved. “Oh God, for one shitty minute there I thought you were going to say that someone had fingered my van in whatever’s going on over there. Christ, if that’s all it is, give us a minute to find the keys and I’ll be right with you.”
“Thank you,” said Gardener.
Johnson went into the back. Gardener could hear him rummaging in drawers.
“Took that a bit well, didn’t he?” asked Reilly. “Maybe he’s fixed it – thinks he can fool us.”
Johnson shouted he’d be through in one second, and that he had the keys.
Although Gardener heard him, he was glancing at something that had caught his attention on the floor, between the bench and the wall.
“Sean, will you give me a hand to move this bench?”
“What have you seen?”
Gardener pointed. “Is that a SIM card?”
“Looks like it,” said Reilly.
Both men managed to move into a position that was not perfect, but would do. They dragged the bench out, and Reilly retrieved the SIM card.
“Well, look what we have here.”
He passed it over to Gardener, whose skin prickled. It was a micro SIM card, and the serial number had been removed.
Gardener glanced towards the back of the shop. “Where the hell is he?”
Reilly didn’t wait. He cleared the shop in seconds, and Gardener could hear him stomping around in the back.
Without warning, an engine burst into life, and Gardener saw the white van screech around the corner of the shop and out on to the road. Graham Johnson was at the wheel.
“Sean, out here, now!”
As both men exited the shop, Gardener glanced in the direction the van was going, towards Harrogate. Graham Johnson was paying no attention to speed limits. By that time, Thornton and Anderson had joined them.
“What happened?” asked Thornton.
“I’m not sure, but let’s say Johnson’s just climbed the ladder of suspects. Frank, Bob, jump in your car and see if you can follow him. Whichever one of you is not driving, get on the phone and see if you can set up a series of roadblocks.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Gardener was late for the incident room meeting. He wasn’t happy, but his team was in good spirits. The ANACAPA chart was huge, with spider’s legs going in all directions, and Maurice Cragg had updated it with Graham Johnson’s name at the top of the tree.
Tea and coffee had been laid on, and Gardener grabbed a cup whilst the men sorted through their notes and took seats. It had been another long day, and though they’d had some encouraging results, there was still a lot of work ahead of them.
He stood at the front and addressed the team.
“As you all know, we found Sonia Knight this morning at the railway station in Bursley Bridge. She was alive when we arrived, but has subsequently died.
“This afternoon, Fitz confirmed for us that although she had cables into her teeth controlled by the ICD, that wasn’t what killed her. She also had a cable running directly into her spinal cord. Apparently, the charge from that simply overloaded the brain, and it exploded.”
“Same man, then, sir?” asked Rawson.
“Almost certainly,” replied Gardener.
“This morning, at the hospital, Sean and I spoke to a surgeon called Andrew Jackson. He thought the ICD looked familiar, and has since called to tell us that he recognizes it as part of a faulty batch that should have been returned to the manufacturer. He suspects they were not, in spite of the relevant paperwork being signed.”
“Have we spoken to the man responsible?” asked Bob Anderson.
“We have. I asked Andrew Jackson for a list of staff at the hospital, including directors. About an hour ago we had a brief meeting with the storeman, Percy Slater. He says that the pumps and ICDs were returned, but it wasn’t the normal driver who collected them. Apparently, that man was on holiday, so it was a relief driver.”
“What was his name?” asked Thornton.
“We don’t know. Mr Slater gave us a good description, though. The most important thing he did was record the registration of the white van.”
“Nice one,” said Sharp. “Anyone we know?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. It belongs to Graham Johnson, the man who runs the computer shop in Bursley Bridge.”
“Excellent,” said Benson. “Let’s get him lifted.”
“We’d love to, Paul, but it’s not that simple.” Gardener nodded to Reilly while he sipped his tea.
“Our man with the van has done a runner. Graham Johnson called Maurice Cragg earlier and reported some nasty stuff on a laptop he was fixing – all sorts of political crap connected to the National Front. We’ve passed that over to the relevant department. While we were in his shop, we also needed to discuss the fact that he owned a white van with a brake light out, something Bob had said one of the locals mentioned. When we tackled him about it, he managed to slip the net. What we did find in his shop was a micro SIM card with the serial number scratched out.”
“Does anyone know where he is?” asked PC Patrick Edwards.
“Not yet, Patrick,” replied Gardener, “but we’re on to it. I put a marker on the PNC against the vehicle number. Any officer who finds him will stop him, detain him, and call me immediately. I’ve also put the van on the ANPR database. If he drives through a camera and it pings on the system, we’ll know about it.”
“We might be able to check his phone location,” Edwards added.
“Good point, Patrick.” Gardener turned and addressed the desk sergeant. “Maurice, would you get me a complete background on Graham Johnson, everything you can find?”
“Yes, Mr Gardener. I’ll get on to it as soon as we finish here.”
Dave Rawson coughed and stuck his hand in the air, as if he was back in the classroom.
“Yes, Dave,” said Gardener.
“That might tie in with something I’ve found out. The people who run The Harrogate Arms recognized the shots of Pollard and Hobson. Said both men were in there on the night that Pollard says they were. They were drinking for about an hour before Hobson left. Pollard stayed for another two hours, he had a meal and a couple more drinks, and then a blonde-haired girl came in and collected him. Owners reckon the girl was Sonia Knight.
“The owners mentioned a couple who were out with their dogs who claim they saw someone bundling something into the back of a white van the same night that Hobson and Pollard were there. They thought it looked like a carpet and said no more about it.”
“Good work, Dave. Have the owners supplied names and an address for the couple?”
“No, but I’m going back in the morning. He says the couple are there as regular as clockwork, about nine-thirty every two days. They weren’t there today, but they should be tomorrow. I’ll see if I can talk to them.”
“Good. If we can get a registration, we could probably tie this up if it’s Johnson’s van. That brings me to Jackie Pollard. We have released him pending further enquiries. I have to be honest here. My gut feeling is that Pollard is not involved. He’s explained to Sean and me why he was outside the shop on the night Alex Wilson was killed, and we’re quite happy to accept what he said as truth for the moment.”
“Which still leaves Lance Hobson,” said Sharp. “Any news on
him?”
“Nothing yet. As Dave just said, he was last seen at The Harrogate Arms a month ago and has not been seen since. All these people are tied into something. They’ve upset someone. Wilson and Knight are dead. Hobson is missing. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s pulling strings.”
“What about Ronson, Pollard’s brief? He’s also Hobson’s brief. Do you reckon he’s involved?”
Gardener turned to Cragg. “Maurice, anything on Ronson?”
“Yes, sir. Ronson lives in Shipston. Seems he’s spent most of his lifetime on the right side of the law, but has skirted over to the wrong side when it suited him. He nearly always turns up to represent criminals with a drug background. If a client had no solicitor, he was always on hand.
“Robson’s biggest failing is that he’s a drunk. The most interesting thing I found out is that he’s had a history of heart problems. Seems he had surgery recently, and some say that’s why he hasn’t been seen for a while. Probably why he’s on holiday.”
“Do you know anything about the surgery?”
“No, sir. I’m only going by what I’ve managed to pick up, but I bet his secretary knows.”
“In that case, do you have an office address for him?”
“Yes, sir.” Cragg passed it over.
“Thank you,” said Gardener. “Tomorrow morning we’re paying his secretary a visit. We’ll find out exactly where he is, when he’s due back – which I believe is tomorrow, anyway – and whether or not he’s implicated in any way.”
“There is another thing, boss,” said Reilly.
“Go on.”
“If he’s had any surgery involving his heart, he could be the next victim.”
“It’s always possible, especially if he’s had an ICD fitted.”
Gardener glanced around the room. “Thornton, Anderson, got something for you. We went to see Robert Sinclair this afternoon, and he also recognised the pumps and the ICD, told us exactly what they did. He even suggested a manufacturer for us, a company called KarGen in Hunslet.
“Seems their reps are sometimes involved in unscrupulous deals, leaving free samples, and pumps being recorded as sold in one country and then turning up in another. I want you to speak to the top men and rattle some heads. As we have no serial numbers, they may well deny the pump came from them. Read them the riot act. Tell them that if they don’t cooperate, I will arrest every last one of them for withholding information in a major crime investigation. See how they like that.”
Bob Anderson’s face lit up. He was an old-fashioned copper who liked old-fashioned methods, and Gardener could tell his last statement was right up Anderson’s street. He rubbed his hands together. “Get in. I’m going to enjoy that.”
The rest of the team laughed. They may have had a tough two days, but information was beginning to filter in, and they were making headway. That always lightened the mood.
“Colin, are you still working your way through the names and addresses of the pub guests?”
“Yes, I’ve spoken to a lot of them, they’re still there. Most are train-spotters a bit disappointed about the weekend being spoiled by a murder.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Reilly with a couple of biscuits in his hand. “Next time we’ll try and work around them.” His comment raised more levity.
Sharp continued. “I need to speak to two more couples. Apparently, they left early.”
“Okay,” said Gardener, with the full confidence that Sharp would see it through to the end.
“There is one more thing,” said Gardener, noticing the board game card stuck to the ANACAPA chart. “We’ve had a lead on the cards.”
PC Close nodded, as much to say that he had as well.
“We got a lot more than we bargained for when we spoke to Robert Sinclair. Seems his mother used to work for Walker Brothers, a games manufacturer here in Leeds.”
“Bloody hell, I remember them,” said Thornton. “I think I had quite a few myself... still, don’t remember anything with cards like we’ve got.”
“You might not,” replied Gardener. “Sinclair’s mother used to bring him a copy of every brand-new game.”
“Doesn’t still have them, does he?” asked Thornton.
“No,” said Gardener. “At least he inferred he didn’t.”
“But you think otherwise?” asked Bob Anderson.
“Not really, Bob. You know the old saying, once a copper, always a copper. Sometimes you never trust anything that anyone says, but they can’t all be lying.”
“What did you think of Sinclair, sir?” asked Cragg.
“Seemed okay to me, Maurice,” replied Gardener. “A bit of a control freak, maybe.”
“And a bit of OCD, if you ask me,” said Reilly. “Did you notice the light switches?”
Everyone roared with laughter. “Fuck me, Reilly,” said Anderson. “Only you could go and interview someone and come out with a statement like that.”
“That’s ’cause I pay attention.”
Even Gardener was laughing. “Go on, then, Sean. What’s with the light switches?”
“They were all the same way up, including the double and triple switches. Have you any idea how hard it is to control light switches so that they all face the same way?”
“Tried, have you?” laughed Thornton. “Wouldn’t surprise me, it’s obviously another sign of madness, and they don’t come any madder than you.”
Another roar of laughter erupted.
“You mark my words,” shouted Reilly to Thornton. “Something will come of it.”
As the laughter subsided, Gardener continued. “Anyway, Sinclair felt that he recognised the game cards: figured that they may have been from a game released in the Seventies but couldn’t tell us a great deal more.”
He glanced at PC Close. “Gary, did you find out anything on Walker Brothers? I’m not after a chequered history, just someone we can talk to.”
“Yes, sir,” said Close. “This game called Murder was developed and distributed in 1968. The man you want to talk to is Simon Walker, the founder’s grandson. He had a seat on the board from 1980, until it was sold to Hasbro in 1994. Anyway, he lives in Shipston, west side of Leeds going towards Bradford. Said he’d be happy to speak to you tomorrow morning, if you have the time.”
“Isn’t that where Ronson lives?” Reilly asked. “We can probably kill two birds with one stone.”
“You’re right, Sean.”
Gardener turned back to PC Close. “Excellent work, Gary. I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s your mum?”
“Comfortable, according to Sinclair. He reckons I should be able to go and see her tomorrow morning. She’s heavily sedated at the moment.”
“That’s good to hear.” Gardener did not want to tell him anything about his meeting with Sinclair, and the fact that he had also asked about Gary’s mother. He didn’t particularly want to betray client confidentiality.
“And your leg?”
“Improving, sir. Now you’ve made me take the tablets.”
Gardener smiled. He turned to Rawson. “Dave, anything on Ross, did you manage to speak to him?”
“Yes, sir. But not for long.”
“How come?”
“He sounds just like Sinclair from what you’ve described, a bit of a control freak but I didn’t check his light switches.”
Another roar of laughter erupted before Patrick Edwards took over. “We went to see him, had to speak to his wife first. She said he followed his morning rituals quite closely: another one with OCD.”
“One of his rituals was the Times crossword,” said Rawson. “Anyway, I remember seeing a film with Roger Moore once. He was doing the Times crossword, and someone asked if he could do it in ten minutes, and he replied, I have never taken ten minutes. Which was exactly what Ross said when he came out of his study as I was asking his wife.”
“Everything about him reeks of money,” said Edwards, “posh house, fancy car, a watch that probably cost more than I earn in a yea
r… not that I’m complaining about my salary.”
“To cut a long story short, sir,” said Rawson, “he told us pretty much the same story you got from Sinclair. He reckoned you have to know what the hell you were doing to get away with what the killer did to Sonia Knight: more importantly, you would have to have somewhere accommodating to carry it out. It wasn’t an afternoon fix – something like that takes time.”
“They certainly had the time if she’s been missing a month,” said Cragg.
“Somewhere accommodating,” repeated Gardener, “like a big house, or a foundation?”
“Or a hospital,” suggested Reilly, “but I doubt you could get away with that.”
“Food for thought,” replied Gardener. “It doesn’t really move us on except to put two people into the frame who are probably not the ones you’d suspect.”
“Sinclair and Ross?” suggested Colin Sharp.
“I really can’t see either of those two being involved,” said Cragg.
“You wouldn’t think so, Maurice,” said Gardener. “And I would doubt it myself, unless we find a connection with Graham Johnson.”
“There’s always Andrew Jackson at the hospital,” said Reilly.
“Time would be his problem,” said Gardener, “he only breathes because it’s automatic.”
Further topics discussed included the PolSA team at Bursley Bridge, the house-to-house, the pub guests, train-spotters and, finally, the station manager Giles Middleton, but most of the comments brought nothing new to the table.
“Still a bit of an open playing field,” Dave Rawson finally offered.
“Yes, but I do feel we’re getting somewhere.” Gardener smiled. The meeting had been a good one. The team had their actions; perhaps it was time to wind down a little earlier than last night.
He was about to say as much when Cragg demanded their attention.
“There is one more thing, sir. It’s pretty serious.” Judging by the expression on the desk sergeant’s face, he meant it.
“Go on,” said the SIO.
“We’ve had a call from a gentleman whose son has apparently gone missing.”
